Secrets
by NCISthemedname
Summary: Sherlock has always been a secretive man. John has never divulged much either. But what happens when Lestrade stumbles upon the two biggest secrets the two men share? How differently will it be when they walk together to crime scenes? Very, Lestrade thinks. Parentlock; OC; R&R please! K because it may become violent. Not sure yet.
1. Chapter 1

Everyone has their secrets. Without secrets, the world is a dull place and Sherlock and John know that better than anyone. It had been five years since Sherlock had returned, seven since he had fallen, and their secrets weren't even closely delved into yet. But one Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, the one they called a friend, was about to find the ones they treasured most.

Twelve years. Lestrade had been working alongside Sherlock Holmes for respectively twelve years and it never got easier. He was still unbelievably harsh, cold, and too calculating to be considered human. True, he had improved significantly since he had moved in with John but John could only change so much. At least now, Sherlock had a moral compass.

Sherlock and John were called in on the crime an hour ago. For some reason, they were late. Lestrade stood impatiently by the body, tapping his foot and glancing at his watch every minute or so. When they finally arrived, he let out an angry huff and glared. John smiled apologetically. Sherlock didn't even look up.

"Important business, Lestrade. None of your business but important," Sherlock said coldly as he crouched next to the body. A woman in her forties, the dead body was slung haphazardly onto her bed. She hadn't been moved and looked dangerously close to falling off. Her undone hair and sleeping gown indicated she never even got out of bed that morning. John snapped on a pair of gloves and tossed some to his companion. "What have you got?"

"Not much," Lestrade said wearily, "but she seems to have choked on her own vomit. That's as far as we know." Sherlock looked up at him dully.

"I thought you said this case was interesting," he muttered.

"Well," Lestrade huffed, "the contents of her safe are gone. We think it was a robbery gone wrong." Sherlock nodded. He remained quiet as he looked over the body, picking up her hands, sniffing her hair, and whatever else he normally did. John waited until Sherlock was finished to start.

"Smells like alcohol," he said, smelling her breath. It was soaked in a whiskey smell but there did not seem to be any other signs of alcohol consumption. "Her eyes are white, not red. I think it was poured on her after her death, to make her look like she accidentally killed herself." He looked up at Sherlock who merely nodded, thinking. John's phone rang. He pulled off the gloves and stepped out of the room, mumbling into the phone. Lestrade looked back and forth between the two men, trying to get a clue as to what was going on. He heard John sigh and hang up the phone.

"What? What is it?" Lestrade asked desperately. If it was about the case, he needed to know. John shook his head. Not about the case. He crouched down next to his flat mate and muttered into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock nodded as John gave his shoulder a squeeze before standing back up.

"I have to go," John announced. "I have some…personal affairs that have to be dealt with. I hope it all goes well." He nodded towards Lestrade and walked out the door. Lestrade sighed in frustration. Not only were they getting no where, but Sherlock's only link to humanity was leaving. Lestrade had dealt with Sherlock alone many times but it was always nicer to have John around as well. At least then Lestrade could control himself enough to _not_ hit Sherlock in the nose.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked pleadingly. "Do you have _anything?"_ Sherlock stood back up, not taking his eyes off of the body.

"Four theories, one that I am confident in but need more proof. Bring all of the clothing and evidence to Molly at St. Bart's. I will deal with it all there." With a flourish, Sherlock strode out of the room, fingers clacking on his phone, concentration etched on his face. Lestrade sighed before signaling his team to clean it all up. Sherlock was still an insufferable git.

That evening, Lestrade could not find Sherlock at the morgue or the lab. He desperately needed to talk to the detective so he decided to try Baker Street. If they weren't there, Lestrade knew he'd be out of luck. He didn't know where else to look and Sherlock knew it. Knocking on the door of the Baker Street flats, Lestrade prayed and hoped that they were there. The kind old lady Mrs. Hudson opened up the door.

"Oh, Greg," she smiled warmly, "here to see the boys?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade said, returning the smile. "Are they here?"

"Oh, yes, but you might want to wait until tomorrow." Lestrade did not listen to the last half. He gently pushed past her and ran up the flight of stairs to 221B. Desperation blocked out any other noise.

The door to 221B had been closed nowadays rather than open and inviting like he once knew. He believed it to be because John was getting older and craved privacy in some form or another. Shaking his head at the thought, Lestrade pushed the door open and said loudly, "Sherlock? I need to talk – "

Sitting in the floor of the living room sat John with a little girl on his lap. The little girl looked so vaguely familiar but Lestrade couldn't figure it out. Her long dark curls bounced as she gazed at John with the piercing grey eyes. John, not noticing Lestrade's intrusion, chuckled as he bounced the girl on his knee, flicking her nose with this forefinger. She giggled as her pale hands reached up to grab at John. He dodged backwards and fell over, ensuing more giggles from the girl. She fell on top of him, hair splayed to both sides. Lestrade knocked on the door, grabbing John's attention. John sat up quickly.

"John," Lestrade said as calmly as he could muster, surprised at the girl's existence, "is Sherlock around? I need to talk with him?"

"Y-yeah," he nodded, "he'll be out in a second." The little girl hid behind John, peaking out over his shoulder.

"And who is this little sweetheart?" Lestrade said sweetly. The little girl looked at John pleadingly and scared. John swept her up from behind and sat her on his lap.

"This is my daughter, Alexandria," John introduced. He looked down at the girl. "This is Daddy's friend, Greg. Can you say hi, sweetie?" She nodded before giving a shy wave. Lestrade chuckled.

"I didn't know you had a daughter," Lestrade said confused.

"He doesn't," Sherlock said behind him. Wrapped in only a towel, Sherlock stood next to Lestrade, dripping in water. He gave Lestrade a cold look for the invasion on their home. He shook his mop of curls with his hand, quite a lot of water landing on Lestrade's shoulder. The detective inspector said nothing. "_We _have a daughter."

Lestrade looked back and forth between the two men. "You mean, as in, you both raised her." John shook his head as Sherlock sighed loudly. Alexandria giggled.

"No," she said aloud. Lestrade was taken aback by the sound of her high pitched voice. "This is Daddy," she said pointing to John, "and that's Papa," pointing to Sherlock. She looked proudly up at Lestrade. "And I'm Alexandria Harriet Watson-Holmes." She gave him a wide ear to ear smile. She giggled again and fell back onto John's chest.

"Watson-Holmes?" Lestrade asked, flabberghasted. "What- what does that mean?" Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"You still aren't very bright, Lestrade," Sherlock huffed.

"Sherlock!" John warned. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Papa and Daddy are married!" Alexandria giggled. She grinned up at John who placed a small kiss on her forehead.

"M-married?" Lestrade gaped. Never saw that one coming.

"You see but you do not observe," Sherlock said coolly. Holding out his left hand, he showed the detective the simple silver band that adorned his ring finger. John did the same.

"W-when?"

"Five years ago," John said quietly. He looked slightly guilty that they had not told their friend. "We had to keep it a secret. Sherlock had just come back and he didn't want to put me at more risk if I came out as his husband. So, we only told Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. It was the same when Lexie was born." The DI stood in utter amazement as he contemplated everything he had just found out. Sherlock was _married _to _John. _The two of them had a daughter. No one knew of any of this.

"This is why we had the door shut, _Detective Inspector,_" Sherlock said coldly. "Surely you, of all people, would understand it's universal meaning." Lestrade shot Sherlock a cold glare. John simply rolled his eyes. Lexie stood up from her spot on John's lap and tiptoed over to in front of Lestrade. He crouched down to eye level with her and she stared at his face. She looked up at Sherlock.

"Papa, he's tired. He hasn't slept in two days. Tell him what he wants so he can go to sleep. Please?" she pouted, giving the most convincing puppy dog eyes Lestrade had ever seen. He took a step backwards in surprise. Sherlock's daughter. Sherlock's duplicate, more like. He heard Sherlock chuckle proudly. John huffed.

_"This_ is why she was kicked out of primary school today," he muttered. "She can't stop these deductions any more than you can."

"Is that why you were called away today?" Lestrade asked, getting his balance back and looking Lexie over. She really was a small duplicate of Sherlock, even with the features she inherited from John. Her eyes weren't as piercing as Sherlock's. They were flecked with dark blue and had more expression. Her lips weren't as pale and thin, but slightly darker and fuller, like John's. She had a warmth to her that her father did not but Lestrade could tell that she also had the cold mind as well. She seemed to be the perfect combination of the two men. In Lestrade's opinion, if that were true, she would be the perfect person.

"Yes," John said slightly irritated. "Seems Lexie decided to deduce the teacher. She was very offended by what Lexie came up with. And I _told _you, Sherlock, not to tell her such things!" He rounded on his husband, giving him an angry glare. Sherlock simply shrugged and shook his hair again. Lexie giggled and went over to her father.

"Papa, pourquoi tu ne lui dis la fille l'a fait?" Papa, why won't you tell him the daughter did it? she whispered. John groaned and fell on the floor. "More French," he muttered. Sherlock smiled and bent closer to his daughter.

"Parce qu'il n'est pas aussi intelligent que vous," Because he's not as smart as you he whispered back. He touched her nose lightly as she giggled.

"Oi," Lestrade said, "tell me what I want to know and I'll let you be." Lexie looked at Sherlock. He nodded.

"The daughter did it," Lexie said confidently. Lestrade looked down at the girl.

"And how do you know that?" he asked kindly but surprised.

"The safe," she said. "It was reported empty but had no signs of a break in. The will was recently changed so that her brother got the contents because her drinking made her mummy mad. The daughter killed her using her own medication injections. Then she took the safe stuff!" She smiled broadly at Sherlock who nodded again.

"Alexandria is right, Lestrade. The daughter injected her mother with an overdose of her own bloodpressure medicine. The victim already had a heart condition of her own. The combination of that plus an overdose of the daughter's medicine sent her into a seizure that forced her to choke on her own vomit. The daughter poured the whiskey over her to give her the smell of a drunk. John pointed out that she hadn't been drinking which led me to the puncture wound. I found out within minutes." Sherlock said as he swiped a curl from Lexie's face. She giggled again and ran back to John.

"Daddy, Papa said I'm right!" she whispered. She sat on his stomach and bounced lightly. John only grunted.

"Well I wish you had bloody well told me earlier," Lestrade said irritated.

"I had to be sure," Sherlock said coyly. "Molly's lab and another set of eyes were needed before I could be certain. I had planned on telling you later tonight. Now, if you'll excuse me." He walked into his room and shut the door with a loud slam. Lexie giggled from on top of John's stomach.

"Papa's always like that," she said quietly. "Daddy says it's because Papa likes a show." John hushed his daughter. Lestrade chuckled.

"I'll leave you to it then." He bade them goodnight and left, his head in a daze. _Sherlock Holmes is bloody married, to John, and has a daughter._ He really was a spectacular actor.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next couple of months, Lestrade began to notice things that he had previously pushed aside when observing Sherlock and John. They were minute actions but now that he knew, they meant so much more. Hands brushing. Small smiles. Stern looks. Even compliments, which before drove Lestrade crazy, meant even more. Before, he believed that John's incesit habit of checking his phone was because he had dates. Now, he knew they were worried glances about his daughter. Texts that kept ringing on Sherlock's phone were no longer information updates about cases but were texts from Mrs. Hudson or Lexie. There were days when the detective inspector wished he had someone to talk to about this but he always kept his mouth shut.

John had to leave crime scenes much more often nowadays. His leaving made him irritable as well as Sherlock. Most of the time, he was able to come back or meet up at the Yard. Some days, he was never seen again. One day, when John hadn't come back from a very early case, Lestrade pulled Sherlock aside.

"Is everything alright with John? I've noticed he's leaving a lot," he muttered for only Sherlock to hear. Sherlock shook his head minutely.

"Alexandria is acting up in school," Sherlock mumbled. Even in his low, muffled voice, Lestrade heard a smidgen of pride. So she was intellectually acting up.

"Too smart for her class?" he asked, chuckling. Sherlock nodded.

"She's been skipped ahead to third year. John hopes that she'll calm down now that she's been advanced," he muttered. A smile threatened to break on his thin, pale lips. "I doubt it. I wasn't much of a role model child myself. He's afraid she'll turn out like me." Lestrade nodded, trying not to smirk, and went back to the case.

The next case they worked, John was downright infuriated. He stormed out of the scene, stringing along curses in his wake. Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock who, for a moment, let his guard down and expressed a small sad look. Before Lestrade could properly register this look, his cold hard façade was back. Acting as if nothing had happened to John, Sherlock turned back to the dead body, examining it with is cold piercing eyes.

Later that afternoon, Sherlock and Lestrade were at the Yard, arguing very loudly about evidence. Peace was brought with a small knock at the door. Lestrade and Sherlock whipped around to see John standing, rather stiffly, in the doorway holding Lexie's small hand. A slightly frightened look was plastered to her small features, her fingers clutching nervously at John's.

"Please, you two, stop yelling," John said calmly. "The entire Yard can hear you. What's going on?"

"This imbecile is trying to argue that what I found isn't evidence," Sherlock spat. He turned his gaze towards Lexie who instantly hid behind John's leg. Sherlock knew that move. He had frightened her with his raw anger. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, Lexie was standing in front of him, still frightened but determined.

"What's wrong, Papa?" she whispered.

"Nothing to worry about, Lex," he said as affectionately as he could without letting his mask crack. There were still others around and John was still afraid of letting others know about their family. In response, she nodded and walked back to John. Just as she took his hand again, Donovan and Anderson arrived in the doorway behind John. Sherlock loudly groaned. "Going to lower our IQ's this early, are we?" he quipped. Anderson scowled as Donovan looked Lexie over.

"Who are you?" she said kindly but with a mixture of confusion and possible disgust. Sherlock smirked. _Doesn't like children._

"Alexandria," Lexie said quietly.

"Where are you parents?" Donovan asked, giving John a quick glance. Lexie opened her mouth but John cut her off.

"She's my cousin," he lied smoothly. "My cousin's daughter. Babysitting her for awhile, right Lexie?" Lexie nodded, giving Sherlock a quick look. He nodded too. It was rather amusing that Donovan could not see the replication of Sherlock in the tiny now five year old girl but he made no remark about it.

"Bet it's interesting living with that freak," Donovan said. Lexie suddenly lost all fear and frowned right in Donovan's face.

"He's not a freak!" she said angrily. "Pa – Sherlock is very smart! You're just jealous!" She stuck her tongue out at the sergeant. Donovan scowled at her and looked up at Sherlock.

"You've rubbed off on her very quickly, Freak. Be careful or she'll turn into you." With that, she dropped a file on the floor behind John and left, her dark curls bouncing angrily behind her. Lestrade chuckled as Sherlock and John fought off very proud smiles. Anderson scowled as well before pushing past John to enter the room.

John crouched down next to Lexie to whisper in her ear. "Why don't you go sit on Greg's chair, Lexie. Papa and I will be done soon hopefully." He gave her a very subtle kiss on her ear as she nodded. Worming out of his grip, she quickly went over to the chair and crawled into it, holding her knees to her chest. Rejoining the other three men, John tried to refocus onto the case. Anderson and Sherlock were already arguing.

"This paper tells us nothing," Anderson growled, throwing the evidence bag back onto the desk.

"Why would it be there if it wasn't useful, Anderson?" Sherlock snapped back. "Just because I haven't pieced it together yet doesn't mean it's not useful. Open your tiny mind, you idiot."

"Girls, calm down," John said exhaustedly. He threw Sherlock a subtle stern look. _Your daughter is in the room, Sherlock Calm down._ Sherlock did not respond. Instead, he turned back to the paper to read it again.

"_What once was ninth is now forgotten; the other eight still reign,"_ Sherlock read. There was silence for a minute or two before a small voice spoke up.

"Pluto," Lexie said. All four men turned their attention to her. "It means Pluto."

"What are you on about, Alexandria?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised. She wriggled out of the chair and around the desk to where Sherlock was standing. She pulled herself onto the desk and fished out his mobile from his coat pocket.

"We learned about it in school," she said as she focused on the phone. "Pluto used to be a planet. There were nine planets. Now, it's a dwarf planet so there are only eight planets left." She found what she was looking for and held it up for Sherlock and Lestrade to see.

"How old is she?" Anderson's voice cut in.

"Five," Sherlock retorted, a proud smile finally breaking through. But then it fell as confusion took over. "But what does it have to do with anything? Alexandria, what else do you know?"

"If you knew about the solar system, you wouldn't be asking a five year old child about it," John teased lightly under his breath. Sherlock threw him a scathing look.

"Well," she said slowly as she took back the phone. "Teacher said that the scientist people are arguing over if it should be a planet again. Then she said that it was a useless planet anyway. That's why they said it was a dwarf planet instead of just a rock. To make it half a planet. But teacher's stupid." Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John rub the bridge of his nose in irritation. He couldn't help but smirk.

"So, what," Anderson said, "they're hinting at something useless?" Sherlock groaned.

"They are trying to tell us they are after something that everyone over looks, Anderson," he spat irritated. "I don't know what yet or who they were intending to get the message to. But I will find out." Anderson scowled again and left the room. Lestrade strode to the door and shut it after the forensics 'expert'. With the door shut, Lexie jumped off the desk and ran to hug Lestrade's legs. Taken back by surprise, Lestrade looked between John and Sherlock. They both shrugged, confusion etched on their faces.

"Urhm, hello, Lexie," he said, patting her back.

"Uncle Greg," she muttered into his knees, "why don't you come to visit?"

"Alexandria," Sherlock said sternly, "he's not your uncle." Lexie turned around to look at him, barely letting go of Lestrade's legs.

"A boy in my class said that when your parents have close friends, it's normal to call them 'aunt' or 'uncle.'" She turned around to look at Lestrade. "You're Daddy and Papa's best friend. I can call you uncle, right?" Lestrade beamed at the girl, nodding his head. Crouching down, he looked into her small face.

"'Course you can, Lexie. I don't mind." Sherlock groaned behind him. The detective inspector looked up, amused. John smiled behind Sherlock before moving forward.

"We need to get home, you two," John said looking between his husband and daughter. They both pulled the exact same face. Excitement mixed with boredom. He shook his head as he took Lexie's hand and walked out the door of the office, Sherlock following behind. Lestrade laughed at the sight to himself.

**A/N: I apologize for the long wait. It's been crazy in my life and I'm writing three stories at once. Insane. **

**Ok, someone who read this asked me why I chose French for Sherlock and Lexie. Sure, tons of people choose it because England is close(ish) to France so it makes sense, right? I chose it because my father spoke to me in French when I was a little girl and he sounds very similar to Benedict. He also used to sing to me in French when I was scared. Just a short explanation. **

**Read and Review please! Also, ideas, insights, whatever you feel like would be nice. Hope to have the next chapter up soon!**

**I do not own Sherlock or it's characters. Only Lexie. **


	3. Chapter 3

Lexie's teachers couldn't take it anymore. She had been shifted around between all the teachers and tutors for her education level but her Sherlockisms, as John called them, kept her from learning much. She couldn't focus on the 'simple and unimportant' when what she saw about people nudged on her mind. John was called for the last time to the headmaster's office. Shaking in a silent battle of calm and frustration, the headmaster politely hissed through his teeth for John to "please transfer your daughter away from us" rather than expel her. John smiled grimly, taking Lexie's hand, and left. He did not say anything on the cab ride back to their flat, afraid he'd say something he would regret. Lexie was smart but she was still only five. Throwing timid glances to her silent father, Lexie stayed quiet as well. Papa would understand. Papa always understood.

"Sherlock," John growled as they entered the flat. "Get in here."

Sherlock sauntered out of the kitchen, hands gloved and eyes shielded in protective wear, and looked down at Lexie. "Out of school already?" he said with an air of amusement.

"Don't, Sherlock," John said sternly. "Not in the mood. Lexie has been expelled. We have to find a new school." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his daughter who hid sheepishly behind John's leg.

"What was she expelled for?" Sherlock asked emotionless. He had an idea.

"Oh don't pretend you don't know!" John snapped. "Because she's your bloody daughter, that's why! She can't stop these deductions anymore than you can. Her teachers are fed up and refuse to teach her anymore. The tutors are the same way. And, from the attitude I got from the headmaster, she managed to slip in time to take the piss out of him too."

"It's not my fault he doesn't love his son as much as his daughter," she said quietly. Sherlock tried not to smile and turned his back to John and Lexie.

"There's nothing we can do about that, John. Like you said, she is my daughter but she is yours as well. Be thankful she's not as rude about it as I am."

"Yes, thank God for that," John muttered as he went into the kitchen. Just as he grabbed the kettle, Sherlock's phone alerted him to a text. "Lestrade?"

"Hmmm, yes," he responded distractedly, reading the text. After it registered fully that he now had a case, he spun around excitedly to face John's back in the kitchen. "Come, John! We have a case!" John instantly started shaking his head.

"No, no, no," he said quickly with a frustrated chuckle. "One of us has to stay here with Lexie. This is your job which means I'm staying here with her."

"Mrs. Hudson – "

"Has gone on holiday with Mrs. Turner," John quipped. Sherlock mused for a moment. "Sherlock, the only other people who know about Lexie are Mycroft and Greg. Mycroft won't take care of her nor does he have the ability. Greg for obvious reasons. Which means I have to stay."

"I _need_ my partner. I _need_ my doctor," Sherlock said in his very rare pleading voice that he reserved only when John was being more bull headed than, well, a bull. He could see as John contemplated cracking but he shook his head, In anticipation, he threw off the goggles and gloves, prepared for the victory.

"I can't. I have to stay – "

"I want to go," Lexie said loudly. Both men turned to her, Sherlock looking prideful while John looked slightly horrorstricken. Her blue-grey eyes were wide with pleading, curiosity, and desire. It was a look she had replicated from Sherlock and one John could very rarely resist. John melted in her hands like putty most of the time. "I want to go with you, Daddy. I'll behave, I promise." Sherlock chuckled.

"No, Lexie, you can't. It's not proper," John said weakly. Sherlock laughed uproariously.

"If you haven't noticed, John, we're not proper," he quipped, a smirk playing with the corners of his pale lips. John growled and rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. He threw his hands up in the air in defeat.

"Fine! Fine, she can come." He looked between the two very excited faces. "But you have to behave. You too, Lexie." Sherlock threw him a playful scowl before running, scooping a giggling Lexie into his arms, and hurrying down the stairs, John not far behind.

XX

Sherlock strode into the alley, his cold hard demeanor professionally fixed, and ignored Donovan as he made his way to the body. John stopped next to Donovan and knelt down to Lexie.

"Stay here with the sergeant. We'll be done soon," he whispered. Lexie shook her dark curls furiously. "Why not, love?"

"I don't like her," she whispered dramatically. "She called Papa a freak. Besides, she's probably stupid." John wanted nothing more than to hit his husband right now. His mannerisms were too ingrained in Lexie now. He chuckled softly.

"Fine but don't stray from me, not even to go to Papa." He kissed her forehead softly before standing up and walking over to the body. Sherlock was in his mode, examining every particle in the alley that could help. To John, it didn't look like the body had been harmed. There were no external wounds or discolorations. He didn't smell alcohol or drugs. Looking over at Sherlock, he silently asked what happened. Sherlock shrugged. Something caught his eye, however. Kneeling back to the body, he lifted it enough to pull out a small picture out from under it. He put the body back down as he examined the picture. After a quiet minute, he handed the picture over to John. It was a monument of some sort, old and made completely of marble. A woman sat atop a large sphere, looking down at the man sitting with two cherubs. Leaning against books, he looked to be instructing the cherubs with his hands turned in an odd position. Underneath him, the entire monument sat on top of a large slab of black marble with a rather indistinguishable scene carved at the bottom. John flipped the picture over to look at the back.

"_I spy something missing."_ He flipped it back over. "Sherlock, what is this?"

"I don't know," Sherlock murmured slowly. "Another clue, I presume, but of what?" Sherlock took the picture from John and handed it to Lexie. John raised an eyebrow at him but Sherlock did not acknowledge it. "What is it? Do you know?" Lexie stared intently at the picture before handing it to John.

"Sir Isaac Newton," she said quietly.

"Who?" Sherlock asked perplexed. John groaned again.

"The man who theorized gravity?" he said mockingly. "One of the greatest scientists of all time? Oh, but that's useless information, isn't it?" Sherlock scowled at John.

"But what's missing?" he asked himself, muttering under his breath.

"The apple," Lexie said.

"The what?"

"Newton discovered gravity when an apple fell on his head," John explained simply. Sherlock thought for a moment before his eyes widened slightly. "Sherlock, what is it?"

"Moriarty is back," he said, his voice hardening and his eyes turning cold.

"Moriarty?" Lestrade said. "But he's dead."

"Obviously not," Sherlock said demeaningly. "When he came to our flat the last time, he carved _I O U_ into an apple and left it with me, saying he owed me a fall. That was before – "

"I can't take this!" John shouted, his voice strained with anger and…fear. "I am sick of this game you two play, Sherlock! End this game and end it now." He stood seething, his hands balling into tight white fists. His face was screwed up in pure anger but Sherlock could see that under the rage, he was consumed with fear.

"It's not my game, John," Sherlock said coldly, standing at his full height, hands behind his back. "You know better than anyone – "

"You're right, I do. That doesn't make it any better. That only makes it worse," John said through gritted teeth. He could feel Lestrade, Donovan, and the forensics team all staring at him, most of them confused at the yelling match taking place over a dead body but he didn't care. His only focus was the man in front of him and the small girl standing between them. Without another word, he spun on his heels and pushed past the police force blocking the way out of the alley towards the street. Everyone stood in complete silence as they heard his footsteps die off. Lexie ran to Sherlock, gripping tightly around his waist, and began to cry. Sherlock crouched down next to her and swept her up in his arms. He didn't care now about how the police would see him. He kept his mask on but he couldn't not comfort his daughter. John and Sherlock rarely fought in front of her and they never brought up Sherlock's death. He postulated that her confusion scared her more than their yelling did. He nuzzled his nose into her black curls, whispering soft words of comfort into her ear. When she calmed down a bit, she pulled back and looked into his face. Hurt. Confusion. Fear. Adoration. Love. All were written in her small face and he was sure they were written in his too. Without a word, she broke away and ran after John. Arms now empty and heart heavy, Sherlock rose and turned his attention back to the dead body. He finished albeit with much less enthusiasm than before.

221B never looked so haunting to Sherlock before. Even when he was returning from 'the dead,' he entered the flat with much more confidence than he had now. John was in no way a fragile being. He was strong and calloused but he could only take so much pain. Sherlock knew that if Moriarty really was back, it would be John's breaking point. His family would be in jeopardy again, something he would not be able to cope with, Sherlock believed. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open to the flat. John was crouched over, hands in his hair, in his armchair, laptop pushed to the floor. He had been trying to update his blog but could not find the drive to do so. His face was red but not puffy. _Not crying, just angry,_ Sherlock noted. Silently, he walked up behind his husband and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He felt John jump.

"Sherlock," he said in a strained voice, turning to face his tall husband. "I-I didn't hear you come in. How – how did the case go?" Sherlock shrugged.

"It doesn't matter," he said softly. "I'm not concerned with the case right now. I'm concerned about you." He made his way around to face John and knelt before him on the floor. John watched his every move, face now blank of emotion. "John, I know that those two years were hard on you. Believe me, they were just as hard on me. But if Moriarty is back, you know that I have to find him. You know I have to do this by his rules if I want to keep you safe and Alexandria." John sighed and nodded.

"I know. I just – " He ran his hands through his hair again, making the graying hair stand on end. "When are the nightmares going to stop, Sherlock? When are we going to have a normal life? I want to go out and tell everyone that I have a wonderful, extremely intelligent daughter that I've raised with an equally wonderful and extremely intelligent consulting detective. I want to not live in fear that someone will come after us because of you. What about Lexie? Is she going to have to live in fear and continue to deny us as her dads? She hates it as much as I do, if not more." He cupped Sherlock's face gently, rubbing a calloused thumb across Sherlock's sharp cheekbone. "When are the nightmares going to stop?" he repeated in a whisper. Sherlock covered John's hands with one of his own.

"I don't know, John," he said truthfully. "But you know that I want the same as you do. I want to tell everyone that I married a very brave and caring army medic who has been able to put up with me longer than my own parents could. I want to show off Alexandria to every person who comes by and not have to hide how proud I am when she insults Donovan or Anderson." John gave him his _bit-not-good_ look. Sherlock smiled and continued. "I want your nightmares to stop too. I want you to be happy and I want Alexandria to be happy. But as long as I still have enemies, these are things we'll have to deal with. It's just the same as if you weren't invalid, still in the army, and were deployed. It is something that comes with our jobs. The quicker I find Moriarty, the quicker we can do any of this. But I have to play by his rules." John nodded morbidly and smiled weakly. He kissed Sherlock chastely on the lips as his silent act of understanding. Sherlock stood up, looking around the flat. Without a word, he went upstairs while John went back to his blog.

Minutes later, John heard quick, loud steps as Sherlock ran downstairs. He turned around to see Sherlock's white face, eyes wide.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked as calmly as he could.

"Where's Alexandria?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"She was with you, at the crime scene," John said quickly. Sherlock shook his head.

"She went after you when you left." Panic was starting to rise. A loud crunch bounced around the flat but neither man paid any attention as John's laptop sat broken on the floor. John ran upstairs, as if _he_ could find Lexie. A few very quiet moments later, John ran down the stairs, stopping at the last step. He looked Sherlock in the face, his normally tan caring face now ghostly white and seeping in panic. His eyes were wild and searching, searching for anything that would bring his daughter back.

Lexie was gone and they had no idea where she could be.

**A/N: Dun dun dun! Alright, so here is where it speeds up. I think I might have three more chapters left. **

**ANYWAY – Thank you for your reviews, follows, favorites, etc.! They mean a lot! Read and reviews are most welcome. **


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock and John spent the rest of the night running over every bit of information they could which could possibly lead to Lexie whether she was captured or just wandered away. Knowing Sherlock and his ability to anger more than a few dozen people, John believed she had been taken but refused to let his panic win out. It wasn't until mid-morning when Sherlock was pacing frantically that John resigned his pride and said quietly, "We have to go to the Yard, Sherlock. We have to tell Lestrade so that – "

"No, John!" Sherlock said hurriedly. "We can't let anyone else – "

"Damn secrecy, Sherlock!" John shouted, anger and panic getting the better of him. "Our daughter is gone! But Lestrade knows about her. All we have to do is tell him she's missing. Nothing more." Breathing deeply, John knew he had to appear calm to keep Sherlock grounded. To the rest of the world, Sherlock seemed as if he could not have any emotions at all. Anger, possibly, but anything else would be a mystery to the man. John knew differently. Sherlock's emotions were locked away for a reason. He succumbed to them easily, letting them take over his thought processes. Fighting his emotions was a losing battle to start with. Sherlock took a deep breath as he nodded, realizing John was right. Without another word, the two men grabbed their coats and sped out the door.

Twenty agonizingly slow minutes later as they arrived at the Yard, John threw the money at the cabbie as he and Sherlock quickly made his way inside. They weaved and pushed their way into Lestrade's office, ignoring the fact that the DI was in a deep conversation with Donovan.

"Oi!" Donovan exclaimed. "We're busy here, Freak. And we don't – "

"Alexandria is missing," Sherlock said quickly but evenly to Lestrade. John kept back, afraid his fear would cripple him or worse. Not breaking the eye contact with the consulting detective, Lestrade silently and slowly stood up as the dark brown eyes seemed to show how fast his brain was processing and calculating the severity of the issue. The small time robbery he had been working on could surely wait. After what seemed like weeks, Donovan finally broke the silence.

"What is the big deal?" she said, a tense and false laugh lacing her tone. The sergeant glanced between the three men ignoring her with her hands on her hips as she tried to figure it all out. None of it made sense. "You don't even like kids, Freak. Why are you getting so upset about this one? We'll find her soon enough." She failed to notice Sherlock's large pale hands flexing and fisting maddeningly at his side, something neither the ex-army doctor nor the DI missed. Cautiously, John stepped forwards to grip his partner's elbow which did nothing to lessen the pain he was inflicting in his own palm. The neglect to answer had Donovan starting up again. "She's a child. Children run away all the time. Just because you work with us for God knows why doesn't meant you can come in here and demand for us to search for a child we don't actually know is missing. You have to wait twen-"

"She did not run away," Sherlock hissed as he finally turned around to face her. His usually piercing gray eyes were bright and hard with anger as his face twisted into a pure anger only John had ever seen before. Donovan stumbled backwards but tried to redeem herself by stepping forward with an angry expression of her own. Dark eyes hard set on the detective and tight curls bouncing wildly around her face, she jabbed at his chest as she spoke.

"How would you know?" she gritted out. "You despise anything human. I bet you ran her out – she couldn't handle living with a freak like you. She is obviously much smarter than John ever was." The olive skinned woman threw a look of pity and disgust at John who reciprocated but it was laced with anger. "We will find her when the twenty-four hour period has hit. She ran away, Sherlock. Nothing else."

"My daughter doesn't run away," Sherlock spat angrily and stormed past her towards the front of the building. Stunned silence fell over the sergeant as the doctor and the DI watched her. Neither man felt upset with Sherlock; it had been coming to Donovan for a while now. Gritting his own teeth together to keep his patience, John stepped forward and turned to the DI.

"Please," he pleaded quietly, "find our daughter. We don't know – "

"'Our?'" Donovan repeated. John turned on her sharply, the steely dark blue glare returning. The woman could not hide her sharp intake of breath as the severity of John's gaze burned through her. He had never in so many years been so angry and never since he had returned to London. But his daughter was gone and one of the few people who could find her was poking at Sherlock like a child. Slowly, with a burning intensity, John stood completely erect as he took a step closer to the woman and relishing as she stumbled backwards again.

"Yes, _our_. Did I stutter, sergeant?" he spat. Taking a closer step to the taller woman, John did not back down nor let his obviously short stature sway him as he hissed dangerously low, "You cannot _fathom_ anyone loving Sherlock or even liking him. You think he's nothing more than a cast off that no one wants because he's _different_. It's the shallow minded _bitches_ like you that we tried to keep our daughter away from. But I promise you this, Sergeant Donovan, if we cannot find her or if something happens to her, there will be _no_ stopping Sherlock if he comes after you for wasting our time. And because he's 'different,' you know he won't back down like other parents will. He's not another father who will stop when you threaten an arrest. You personally have arrested him more times than anyone else. Find her or you face him." Narrowing his eyes more, he growled, "Because you don't want to face me." He did not even look at the detective inspector as he too stormed out of the room following his husband's trail.

XX

Sherlock paced maddeningly around the flat sitting area for hours, waiting and thinking and panicking, in silence. Nothing came, not even John, but he did not worry. John was a former soldier and very able to defend himself. It was their five-year-old daughter that still had him on edge. What would someone want with a five-year-old when they did not know her parentage? Who was it that wanted her, more importantly. The mad man could not come up with a viable answer and began to tear at his graying curls. Every enemy who was at this level of intelligence were either dead or heading the British Government and as his brother hadn't called him with a lecture of how irresponsible of a parent he was – again – he ruled out Mycroft altogether. It wasn't until his fingers began to ache from pulling on his hair that he finally twirled around and, with a hefty kick, angrily kicked the old coffee table over onto the sofa. It did nothing to appease his anger or to help him locate his daughter. Nothing would help unless he had a clue – a name, a location, a bloody crime scene - but as she had been snatched off of the streets, how was he to find her? He groaned and growled and cursed in rage just before his phone chirped. Ignoring it, he began his pacing again, wearing out the faint trail made in the rug and hardwood floor. Then his phone chirped again and again. Growling in frustration, he checked his phone. If the world could stop, if time could stand still, if ice could run through veins, it would have. Sherlock's heart stopped in his ribs as he read the texts over and over again. No. This couldn't be happening. Nothing – it defied everything – but so did he. Taking a steadying breath, he banished all emotion as he reread the texts.

_My, my, Sherly. You do make such a lovely daughter. JM_

_Ooh, Daddy just joined the party. JM_

_They will end where you and I began. JM_

It took Sherlock less than an hour to figure out what the consulting criminal meant by where they 'began.' The pool and the lab had both disappointingly – infuriatingly devoid of any clues as he ran. It wasn't until he knocked over a stand of beakers that he remembered. Within the span of ten minutes, he was running through the halls of the college and trying to figure out where they could be.

When he found them, the sight was haunting. Standing casually in the corner, Moriarty held Lexie still by her curls which had been through into a rough ponytail for ease. Tears welled in her angry eyes but she had her face turned away from the man. Her hands, bound at her waist, clenched and flexed every few seconds to control her anger as John had taught her. Sherlock shook from rage just watching as his daughter stood frightened and angry beyond her comprehension. Cautiously, he opened the door, the creak of the old wood giving him away, and stepping into the dimly lit room. Moriarty did not move as his eyes flickered to Sherlock's face. After a moment, he finally spoke.

"I'm tired and busy, Sherlock, so let's make this quick," he said in a bored voice. He snapped his fingers and a loud grunt sounded from the hall next to them. After a crash and a loud swear, John was pushed in just as tied up as Lexie and thrown to his knees. Sherlock kept his face completely stoic as his eyes flickered between his husband and his daughter. "There is only one way out of this room." A gun was roughly shoved into his hand and his fingers were forced to clasp it. "Pick who you 'love' more and shoot the other one. Who will you pick, Sherlock? Your husband or your daughter?"


	5. Chapter 5

In a world full of noise where trains and planes and cars never stopped, silence was the sweetest gift a man could ask for. But for Sherlock, it was the weight of every negative choice he had ever made culminating into one distinct time in the universe and now weighed on his frail daughter's life. Her dark blue eyes searched her father's form for any sort of answer, any sort of sign that said Papa would help her, save her, save Daddy. But here and now Sherlock had been able to build a wall even for her against his emotions as he stared down the dark, soulless eyes of the psychopath. The seemingly careless demeanor did not spur the madman on, which was what Sherlock was counting on, but it did not deter him either. Stalemate. Someone had to move, had to thrust a pawn into the opening before the kings could move.

As the silence stretched on, their eyes never broke apart until a wicked gleam passed over Moriarty's dark eyes and he blinked. He turned to look at the man holding John and nodded. A sickening crunch emanated through the air, accompanied by a gasp from Lexie, but John did not make a sound. The pain in his dark blue eyes was enough for Sherlock to move forward and surrender yet he didn't get the chance.

"Papa, non. Enregistrer papa. Vous pouvez avor plus d'enfants. Vous pouvez avoir un autre Lexie. Vous ne pouvez pas trouver un autre papa –," Papa, no. Save Daddy. You can have more kids. You can have another Lexie. You can't find another Daddy - Lexie pleaded but her dark curls were jerked up harshly by her captor and she let out a choked sob in pain.

"No French, darling," Moriarty cooed. He looked up at Sherlock. "None from you either, Sherly. No need to cheat. Besides, of the five people in this room," he smiled over at John, "only one can't speak French. Wouldn't it be kinder to include _everyone _in the conversation?"

Sherlock let out a small, almost too quiet to be heard growl as his free hand clenched hard to the point where he felt the threat of blood against his fingernails. But he released and flexed his fingers minutely.

"What happens if I choose neither?" he said coldly with his eyes only for Moriarty. "What happens if I put the gun down and do nothing?"

Moriarty's cold laughter rang through the room before Sherlock even finished his second question. He was drowned in cold, emotionless, haunting laughter from a man who did not understand his plight but enjoyed watching him suffer under it. With a sharp tug, Moriarty threw Lexie backwards by her hair until she hit the wall and slid down to the floor, almost unconscious from pain and fright. Sherlock almost made a move forward but his bluff. His bluff needed to stay resolute. With seemingly uncaring eyes, he watched as the madman stepped forward until they were mere inches apart.

"Would you really do that, Sherlock?" he asked quietly to where no one could hear them. "Would you really risk your stooge's life, the man who made you forget who you are? Or would you kill off your little science experiment of a daughter?" But all sense of lunacy and deranged amusement left his eyes as a deep set frown overtook his lips and anger and betrayal spoke highly in his dark eyes. "We used to be alike, you and I. Perfect halves to a whole. Now look at you. Sniveling little coward." He jerked his knee up into Sherlock's stomach unexpectedly and made the detective bow over in half. "Can't even hold a gun to your poor monkey's head." He elbowed down onto Sherlock's crown until the man was nearly kneeling on the floor. "What happened to the Sherlock who would do anything for a puzzle, for a game? The man who let others die in the name of the Work? What happened to him?"

Moriarty's voice was more human than Sherlock had ever heard him be before. It wasn't the betrayal of stepping out of the game. It was betrayal for being left alone. With Lexie and John, Sherlock had all but assimilated himself to the normal, boring people in Moriarty's eyes and Sherlock could see that. He had left Moriarty alone in his morose, dangerous, self-destructive world without a thought. And now he was going to pay for it.

This time as Moriarty's knee came up, Sherlock grabbed it and, with a precisely timed and placed hit, dislocated Moriarty's knee. The man screamed loud enough to shake windows for only a second until he looked down on the detective and stood on his dislocated knee. Pain run through every shake of his muscle movement but it seemed he was not going to show Sherlock the damage. He was better than pain. He enjoyed pain.

Moriarty's injury gave Sherlock enough time to stand back up and look the man in the face briefly before looking over at his daughter and husband. The situation was impossible. Only a twenty-eight percent likelihood they would all three survive, fifty-nine percent chance of only one of them surviving. Sherlock knew who would be left if he took that course of action.

"That man evolved, Moriarty," Sherlock said coldly and quietly, his voice ringing steadily through the room as if to cover every inch of silence with a deep complexity no one could understand. He slowly returned his gaze to the psychopath standing between himself and his nearly unconscious daughter. "Pain is a marvelous paralytic but love is a fantastic motivator. At least, that is what I told your cabbie so many years ago, didn't I? And I was right." He began in a circular motion slowly, almost as if to dance around with Moriarty though he made no steps closer to the man nor did he seem to deviate off towards his daughter. "But those are things you will never fully understand nor should you. In a world full of locked doors, you have the key to nearly everything except the full-potential of a man. You can threaten a man's life until the moment he snaps or you can threaten his family and watch him burn."

Quickly as possible, he aimed both his gaze and his gun towards the other set of men in the room, only chancing a glance at John's dark blue eyes before whispering, "I'm sorry, John," and shot.

XX

Lestrade looked down at his phone just as a text came in, _Holmes _flashing on his screen. _I need to change that now that I know about them,_ he told himself for the twenty-third time as he opened up the message and read. But it wasn't anything useful.

[Manual Text Delay] _Stephen McAllister. SH_

The DI was more than a little lost on the entire text. Who was Stephen McAllister and what did he have to do with anything? If it was connected to Lexie –

"Shit," Lestrade whispered to himself then ran out into the horde of officers rushing around the homicide department. He caught up to Donovan and demanded without greeting, "Look up Stephen McAllister in relation to Holmes. And don't give me any lip, Donovan. I need this _now._" He left her to it and ran back to his office where he suited up rather quickly. If Sherlock was asking for help on something, especially in relation to his daughter, Lestrade knew that he had gotten himself into more trouble than he had been expecting. Just as he put a new clip into his handgun, Donovan walked into the room reading a case file.

"McAllister, Stephen, fifty-two, father of two, Ellie and Dylan. Divorced. Diagnosed brain aneurism six years ago but no medical help. Cabbie." She paused, frowned, then read on. "Killed after forcing four people to commit suicide via unidentified capsule and an attempted fifth, one Sherlock Holmes. Shot by handgun of unknown origin at short distance at University of Westminster, student division. Shooter never found, no suspects." She looked up at him, confusion written on her face but no words coming from her slightly parted lips.

"Send three cars there within fifteen minutes but tell them to wait for my orders," Lestrade ordered as he slipped his two handguns into their holsters and covered them with his trench coat. "I will be going in alone and will only give orders when it is cleared or if we are in distress. Tell them there is a defenseless five year old girl inside and we must get her out safely, along with her father if he's still alive." He gave no other instruction as he sped past her and out towards the squad cars.

_Sherlock, you bastard. You better be alive,_ he thought as he roared his car engine out on the busy London street and off towards uncertain situation.


End file.
